


Hustle at the Starlight Lounge

by blarfkey



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Gentleman Lush! Obiwan, Obi-Wan is a lush and you can't tell me otherwise, This came out a little shippier than I intended but I am also very cool with that, secret badass! Padmé, slight obidala if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:57:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3492638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And don't forget, she's a politician, and they're not to be trusted."</p>
<p>When the Drunken Bantha burns down, Obi-Wan decides to take his favorite method of stress relief to a more classier establishment and spends a surprising evening with a person he never thought he'd see again.</p>
<p>AKA how Obi-Wan and Padmé become secret drinking buddies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hustle at the Starlight Lounge

It’s hard work, finding a decent cantina, but mastering a Padawan such as Anakin is one hell of a motivator.

Obi-Wan’s usual place, _The Drunken Bantha,_ a rowdy din located in the sub levels where Obi-Wan could both blend in and keep an ear and eye out for suspicious activity, had burned to the ground _because_ of said suspicious activity. A small part of him mourns the loss of a place that had eased his stress over the last five years, but then he remembers the faint moldy smell in the air, the constant puddles of spilled alcohol, the chairs that wobbled dangerously from side to side from all the abuse they suffered during nightly fist fights. Perhaps the fire was a stroke of good fortune, or perhaps the Force was not-so-subtly steering Obi-Wan into classier establishments.

Obi-Wan looks up at the warm glow emanating from the dark wooden doors of _The Starlight Lounge._ Located high in the Entertainment District, the exclusive club mainly catered to the very wealthy and the very discreet. Obi-Wan is never the first and only occasionally the second, but he feels up to experimentation.

At first the entrance looks completely unguarded, highly unusual for establishments picky about their clientele, but then a huge Herglic steps out from the shadows.

“Your name, sir,” he rumbles, pulling out a datapad.

“Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Obi-Wan places his hand on his hip, subtly revealing his lightsaber beneath his robes.

The Herglic doesn’t even look at him, scanning the pad for a few moments before announcing, “A thousand apologies, sir, but you are not on the list.”

“I’m sorry?” Obi-Wan has never run into this problem before. Few places actually have the gall to ban Jedi, even if they secretly wish to.

“The _Starlight Lounge_ only allows certain, pre-approved clientele,” says the Herglic. “One must be on the list to be allowed entry. I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot wave you through unless you are either on the list or a guest of a patron.”

Obi-Wan crosses his arms. “And how, exactly, does one get on the list? Is there an application?”

He says this last part with heavy sarcasm, but the Herglic looks scandalized at the very idea. He draws himself up to his very formidable height. “One does not _apply_ to the _Starlight Lounge._ One is _invited_.”

This is ridiculous. When Dex recommended this place to Obi-Wan, he never mentioned this kind of insular environment. The Herglic’s gaze is drawn to someone behind Obi-Wan and just like that he is dismissed.

 “Good evening, Madame Amidala, and welcome.”

“Master Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan whirls around to a face he hasn’t seen in a very long time. Queen Amidala stands cloaked in gleaming velvet, her normally elaborate hair lying in elegant braids over her shoulder with only a simple silver headband to accompany it. Almost unrecognizable out of her ceremonial make up, Obi-Wan only recognizes her from the sound of her voice and her expressive brown eyes.

“Do you know this man?” the Herglic asks with a sniff.

Amidala walks up and links her arm in Obi-Wan’s and he catches a whiff of her floral perfume. “Yes, he’s my guest this evening.”

The Herglic’s entire demeanor shifts. He bows to Obi-Wan. “A thousand apologies, Madame! I was not notified of this. The both of you may enter right away.”

He steps aside and Amidala guides Obi-Wan into the lounge. Small wall sconces bathe the lounge in warm, ambient lighting that showcases the dark wood décor. Ornately carved tables dot the floor, the faint shimmer of sound-dampening fields covering them like a dome. Amidala leads him to the gleaming bar that dominates the left side of the room and settles on a cushy stool. The light glints off the many beads embedded in her braids.

“A glass of blossom wine, if you please,” says Amidala to the bartender. “And whatever he is having.”

“I – thank you,” says Obi-Wan. “I’ll have a Corellian brandy.” He turns to Amidala. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be ordering that?”

She arches an eyebrow as she unfastens her cape. “I turned twenty-one three months ago, thank you very much. So what brings a Jedi Master to a place like this?”

“What brings a Queen?” Obi-Wan counters.

“It’s _Senator_ Amidala now,” she says, drawing herself up a little taller.

Underneath her cape she wears a simple silk tunic and leggings with intricate silver embroidery that hugs her figure tighter than the clothes he remembers her wearing. It’s obvious, in the new lighting, just how much she has grown. She used to come up to his shoulder; now she stands nearly half a head taller.  Her soft, childish features have matured into a sensual grace, with high cheekbones and a generous mouth, and the peek of collarbone from underneath her tunic. Anakin would have an absolute heart attack right now if he could see her.

“Congratulations are in order, then,” says Obi-Wan. “Though I have to ask: eight years of reign wasn’t enough politics for you?”

_Senator_ Amidala rolls her eyes. “I want to be in a position to accomplish something. To enact change. To help. I had some experience with that as Queen, but I think I can do more as a Senator.”

The bartender shows up with their drinks. Amidala’s wine comes in a tall, slender flute sprinkled with tiny purple flower blossoms. The Corellian brandy comes in a gold-rimmed shot glass. Obi-wan almost fears to taint it with his lips. He does so, anyway, downing the shot with practiced ease. Qui-Gon felt at ease equally in high- and low-class establishments, but Obi-Wan never inherited that, so to speak. Amidala, of course, looks right at home.

“I can’t fault you for those desires; I have them myself. But I have to wonder if you’re going to accomplish that in the position you’re in.”

“You don’t like politicians, do you?” she asks, but her lips are twitching she leans towards him, not away. He spots the dark blaster belted to her hip and proceeds with caution.

“I don’t dislike them,” he says slowly, “but in my experience they have a greater propensity to lie and scheme than people in other professions.”

“And the Jedi don’t? I distinctly remember Master Qui-Gon going behind my back on Tatooine to gamble everything on a Podrace and then telling me to my face that what the Queen doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Even after seven years the ache of Qui-Gon has not dulled. The Jedi are not supposed to mourn for so long or so much, but Obi-Wan never mastered the art of unattachment. 

“My Master was uniquely rebellious in the Order. There were none like him and there have been none since.” Though, honestly, Anakin could give him a run for his money in pure pig-headedness.

Amidala looks into her drink. “I’ll be honest – the man infuriated me at times. But everything he did helped me and my people, and I have never forgotten his sacrifice.”

“Thank you,” says Obi-Wan and he means it.

Though the Temple commissioned a bust of Qui-Gon to rest in the Archives, all other traces of the man are gone. Mentions of him are brief and few and far between and sometimes it feels like he never existed. That someone still honors Qui-Gon’s memory gives Obi-Wan a measure of relief.

“How is Anakin?” she asks. “I imagine he’s a very promising apprentice.”

“Oh, very promising,” Obi-Wan mutters. “Promising me a splitting headache every day.”

“Oh?”

He gestures around the lounge. “Why do you think I’m here?”

The Senator laughs. “He was such a sweet boy. He can’t possibly be that bad.”

“Oh, he’s still kind and generous, but he’s also reckless, stubborn, moody, and rebellious and sometimes he drives me absolutely mad.”

“So. . . a normal teenager, then?” She is still smirking at him.

Obi-Wan throws her a dour look. “You were a teenager; I didn’t see any of that behavior from you.”

Her eyebrows raise and she takes a sip of her wine. “Then you didn’t see me enough. Qui-Gon didn’t tell you any stories of my attitude?”

“Not particularly,” says Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon was too busy scheming about Anakin to talk about anything else. “But I did hear a lot of muttering while we were on Tatooine.”

“I can’t speak from a Jedi’s point of view, but I will say my stubbornness does come in handy in politics.”

“I imagine it does,” Obi-Wan mutters.

“Especially in dealing with the Jedi.”

Amidala sips her wine to hide the grin tugging at her lips, but Obi-Wan spots it anyway. The woman sitting next to him differs so much from the serious, determined girl he remembers. The only time he ever saw her smile was after the Gungans promised their support to retake Naboo, and he never witnessed her tease or joke with such boldness. Is this even Senator Amidala at all or one of her handmaidens in disguise? Even Qui-Gon had trouble telling them apart at times.

To be fair, Ob-Wan had only observed her under dire and severe circumstances and a lot can change in seven years. He certainly has.

“You’re going to need it if you ever run into Anakin again,” he tells her.

“Well, if the great Master Kenobi has trouble wrangling him, I don’t feel very confident in my abilities.”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t have a problem, Senator.”

“Please,” says Amidala with a wave of her hand. “Call me Padmé. At least in here. Trust me, I’ve had enough formality to last me a lifetime.”

“I understand. . ., Padmé.” He tries her name out. It sits much better on his tongue than her Queen name. “Then you should call me Obi-Wan.”

The smile she gives him is unrestrained and lights up her eyes. Oh yes, Anakin would have quite the heart attack indeed. Even Obi-Wan feels a bit breathless in the wake of her smile.

“So you never said what brought you here,” she says. “I didn’t know Jedi were even allowed to be in places like this.”

Obi-Wan chuckles. “To be honest, Jedi cannot _afford_ to come to places like this. My last haunt, the _Drunken Bantha,_ sort of. . . burned to the ground.”

Padmé’s eyebrows shot up. “The _Drunken Bantha_?”

Obi-Wan squirms. “Such places of ill repute are ideal for gathering information and scoping out wanted persons. My friend Master Vos taught me that. However, when it burned down, I took that as a hint that perhaps I should seek out entertainment in somewhat classier establishments.”

“Well, you certainly have fine taste,” says Padmé. “It doesn’t get much classier than this unless you visit the Chancellor’s private club or the Skysitter.”

“Yes, well, the friend who recommended me this place failed to inform me of just how ritzy it was. I doubt I would ever have seen the inside of it if you hadn’t come along. Which reminds me, you also never said why _you_ were here.”

“This is only my second time,” she admits. She runs a finger over the rim of her glass. “Actually, I’m out to celebrate. I was made Senator very recently and I just moved here a week or so ago.”

Obi-Wan scans the sparsely populated lounge. No one has greeted Padmé outside of the Herglic and her gaze has not once flicked toward the door.

“Are you expecting anyone?” he asks. “Surely you’re not celebrating alone?”

Padmé opens her mouth to speak and then closes it. Her cheeks grow pink and she studies her drink. “Well, I just settled in, you know, and all my friends are still on Naboo. My status was made official _today_ so I thought I might go out and treat myself.”

“Surely you have contacts here from your time as Queen?”

“Well. . . yes, but not people I could ask out for a drink. At least, not people who aren’t already busy with their own problems.”

_She’s lonely_ , Obi-Wan realizes. No wonder she seized upon him with such enthusiasm. He is a familiar face in such a vulnerable time of change. Anakin clung to him in much the same way when he first started his Jedi training with the younglings.

“Well, I certainly feel honored to share in your celebration tonight,” he says.

Padmé flashes another brilliant smile. “That’s very kind of you.”

Quinlan always teases Obi-Wan about Obi-Wan’s chivalric tendencies, calling him Sir Kenobi like Obi-wan is a knight in an ancient fairytale. But something about witnessing other people’s vulnerabilities, perhaps because it is so difficult for Obi-Wan to reveal his own, pulls something tight in his chest and refuses to be ignored. It’s not very Jedi-like, but in the face of someone else’s pain he can’t keep up his carefully cultivated and benevolent distance.

It’s probably the root of all his attachment problems.

But Padmé’s obvious loneliness is pulling such taut strings in him that he can’t ignore it and so against his training and indeed, his better judgment, he lets down some of his walls.

“Have you ever played pazaak?” he asks her.

Padmé lets out a bark of surprised laughter. “The Jedi play pazaak?”

“This Jedi does.”

“Hangs out in suspicious bars, drinks brandy, plays cards. There’s not much difference between a Jedi and a smuggler, is there?”

“I’m offended,” says Obi-Wan, with mock seriousness. “Surely you can’t think all Jedi are stoic monks who just meditate all day?”

“No, of course not! Well I – ” A blush tinges the tops of her cheeks. “I used to play pazaak as a child, but it’s been a very long time since my last match,” she says, swiftly changing the subject.

Obi-Wan smiles, so she knows he isn’t actually offended. “I’ll go easy on you. Shall we pick out a table?”

Padmé orders Obi-Wan another shot before scoping out the room and picking a table in the back corner. The other patrons give them odd looks and Obi-Wan wonders of any of them are future colleagues of Padmé’s about to witness her play one of the most notorious gambling tools in the galaxy with a Jedi stranger. Honestly, he didn’t think about whom else in the lounge would be watching, but Padmé doesn’t seem hesitant at all. He would normally consider her youth the reason for this kind of reckless behavior, but she has had to constantly calculate her appearance to others for a decade now. He decides to trust her judgment.

Padmé activates the sound-dampening shield on their table and waits expectantly. Obi-Wan pulls out the worn pazaak deck he keeps with him.

“Qui-Gon used this to test my perception skills as a young Padawan,” he explains as he shuffles. “And in turn, I’ve used it to test Anakin’s. If one is in tune with the Force, then one should be able to predict the next card and use that to their advantage. Of course, since you’re not a Jedi, rest assured that I will not be using the Force during our matches.”

Padmé smiles. “I would never believe a Jedi to cheat, Obi-Wan, especially you.”

He deals out their respective hands and places the rest of the stack between them. It’s difficult to ignore the voice of the Force, but Obi-Wan pushes it firmly away and focuses on just his cards. He would never want to betray Padmé’s trust, even accidentally.

Padmé loses the first match rather badly, but rather than pout, she cracks her knuckles and says, “I knew I was rusty. Let’s have another one.”

Obi-Wan deals out another match, which Padmé also loses. “Worry not,” he assures her. “You’ll win one before the night is over.”

Padmé shoots him a grateful smile and then proceeds to thoroughly thrash Obi-Wan for the next seven matches in a row. For the first two he blamed beginner’s luck, but the next five of Padmé’s victories he could only watch in increasing bewilderment.

“I do believe one of us was not very truthful earlier,” he accuses, “and it certainly wasn’t me.”

Padmé’s face can barely contain her smirk. “I didn’t lie, Master Kenobi. I said I hadn’t played pazaak since I was a child. I just didn’t inform you that I was the unspoken pazaak champion of Theed. I even beat Captain Panaka and he won national attention for his skills in his youth.”

Obi-Wan folds his arms. “Lying by omission. How very like a politician.”

In truth, Obi-Wan can’t be very angry because rarely do people surprise him like this. In fact, he can’t help but feel rather proud of Padmé. However, when playing pazaak with a woman who spent half her life concealing her true abilities and playing on others' underestimation of her, he should not have been surprised.

“It takes skill to hustle a Jedi,” he says with a smile. “Perhaps there is some Force-sensitivity in you yet.”

Padmé laughs. “I’m much too passionate to be a Jedi. I think with my heart more often than with my head.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being passionate. In fact, dispassion is hard for most Jedi to cultivate. Certainly I don’t do a splendid job of it. But Jedi understand that one’s duty has to come before one’s passions. You understand that just as much as any Jedi. Don’t sell yourself so short, Padmé.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her cheeks flushed as if Obi-Wan paid her a high compliment indeed. Surely she must have gotten hundreds, maybe even thousands, of compliments from beings in her life; Obi-Wan’s should be like a drop in an ocean. But perhaps it isn’t the frequency of the compliment, but its sincerity, that flusters her.

It’s only when she stifles a yawn that Obi-Wan realizes how late it is – or, technically, how early.

“My goodness, we’ve lost track of the time,” he says. “You must be exhausted, you have so many new duties to see to now.”

Padmé waves her hand. “If I couldn’t function under lack of sleep, I wouldn’t be in politics. But we should probably be going. The lounge will close soon, I think.”

With reluctance, Obi-Wan collects the pazaak cards and places them back on his belt pouch. He never expected such an enjoyable evening when he set out to explore the lounge. He can’t help but feel like the Force must have guided them both here, for what are the odds that he would run into the former Queen of Naboo on the night she made Senator?

“Do you have transport?” he asks her. “I can escort you back to your apartment, if you’d like.”

“There’s no need. I can call my bodyguard to pick me up. In fact, can I give you a lift back to the Temple?”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to argue that he is perfectly capable of getting himself back home, but he shouldn’t get into the habit of denying free rides in cushy speeders.

“That would be much appreciated,” he tells her instead.

Padmé’s speeder has the same glossy chrome finish as her old starfighter, something Obi-Wan thought could only belong to the current ruler of Naboo. The man who drives it has an eye patch and familiar eyes.

“Captain, could we drop Master Kenobi off at the Temple? It shouldn’t be too far of a drive from here.”

“Certainly, Senator.”

The trip back to the Temple is a matter of minutes, the traffic thin this hour of the night. As Typho glides to the docking station, Padmé places her hand on his wrist.

“Thank you for keeping me company tonight,” she tells him. “I don’t know what Jedi protocol dictates, but perhaps we can have another rematch.” The corner of her lips quirk up. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“I look forward to it,” he says. “Now that I know your true capabilities, it should prove to be an interesting game.”

Not knowing how much is appropriate for either of them in this burgeoning friendship, Obi-Wan lives up to his nickname and gives her knuckles the swift and chaste kiss befitting of someone in her station. If Quinlan ever saw that he would never let Obi-Wan live it down.

“Good night, Senator. Good luck with your new job.”

She gives him a fond smile. “Good night, Master Kenobi. Good luck with Anakin.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m going to need it.”

Obi-Wan waits until her speeder flies off before heading into the Temple. 

**Author's Note:**

> It is a crying shame that these two almost never have any interaction with each other because they would have been epic best friends. And I can't help it if this is a little shippier than I intended because come on. Who wouldn't be breathless in the presence of Padmé?


End file.
